


Muggy Weather

by storiewriter



Series: Bentley Farkas and Friends [25]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Transcendence (Gravity Falls), Domestic Fluff, Family Shenanigans, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Revenge, mention of intoxication, petty petty revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-30 04:58:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14489325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiewriter/pseuds/storiewriter
Summary: “That’s good,” Dipper said, drumming his nails by the salt shaker in front of him. Bentley stared at the shaker, then at Torako’s bowl embossed with ‘cereal.’ The unease strengthened. Bentley began to brace himself. “Do you want something to drink?”“What did you do,” Bentley said. He crossed his arms and tilted his chin up.Torako lifted the bowl to her lips and took a drink. “Nothing, just having coffee. Say, did you hear what the weather was going to be like today?” Her mouth twitched.Torako and Dipper play a prank, or two, or three on Bentley. Bentley suffers, until he doesn't.





	Muggy Weather

Bentley woke, blinking slow and lazy against the last dregs of sleep. He lay there for long moments, comfortable under the warm covers, in the shadows of the sleep-tinted windows. It was quite possible, actually, that he dozed on and off, at ease with the hazy awareness that nothing was going to happen that day.

Then it dawned on him, like the slow spill of honey, the slow spreading of the sun on the horizon during daybreak, that he kept hearing the front door open and close. Bentley blinked a little faster, and shifted, then stretched with a small grunt. The muscles in his back pulled satisfyingly tight before he relaxed, turning onto his side and staring through half-lidded into the dim lightness of his pillow.

The front door opened and shut. He heard Torako laugh and Dipper hush her. Bentley smiled, warmth blooming in his chest, and curled his fingers into the blanket. He closed his eyes, and thought of nothing for a while.

Then he remembered her laugh. He remembered _what_ laugh it was, and he was sitting up before he even realized that he’d opened his eyes. Bentley pulled the covers off himself, the air pleasantly cool, and stood. He stifled a yawn behind his hand and shuffled over the door. He hesitated there; was it better to go out and brave whatever shit Torako and Dipper were pulling this time, or should he just go back to sleep and ignore it all?

Bentley turned back to the bed. The clock interface on the wall glowed soft blue: 11:23. Bentley wouldn’t have more than thirty minutes before one of them came in to pull him out, so he turned around and palmed the door open. He took a fortifying breath, and stepped into the hallway. Then past the pictures hovering over the walls, past the open bathroom door and finally--horrifyingly--he entered the living/dining room.

Torako and Dipper were seated at the table. This wasn’t too abnormal. Bentley narrowed his eyes at them, then at the room.

“Oh, did we wake you up?” Torako asked. She was holding her hand half over her mouth. Bentley’s distrust levels doubled.

“Not really,” he said, which was half-true. He appraised the couch to his right. It was the same color as the day before, but had it been shifted half an inch? No, he told himself, Torako and Dipper wouldn’t repeat the same trick more than once every few years, and they’d pulled that last April. He turned his attention back to the table.

“That’s good,” Dipper said, drumming his nails by the salt shaker in front of him. Bentley stared at the shaker, then at Torako’s bowl embossed with ‘cereal.’ The unease strengthened. Bentley began to brace himself. “Do you want something to drink?”

“What did you do,” Bentley said. He crossed his arms and tilted his chin up.

Torako lifted the bowl to her lips and took a drink. “Nothing, just having coffee. Say, did you hear what the weather was going to be like today?” Her mouth twitched. Torako had gotten better at hiding her expressions, but not at the rate Bentley had gotten better at reading them.

Bentley pursed his lips. He looked between Torako’s cereal bowl, which apparently had coffee in it, and Dipper’s salt shaker, which almost certainly had coffee in it too. Either they had broken all coffee-relevant dishware, or--

Dipper opened his mouth. Bentley realized what he was going to say a half second before the words came out. “Apparently it’s a bit muggy out.”

“You _fuckers_ ,” Bentley hissed, “had better get all our mugs and cups back inside before I throttle you both.”

They looked at each other, comic expressions of utter innocence on their faces before they cracked and started howling with laughter. Dipper’s wing knocked over his salt shaker, spilling espresso everywhere in an awful mess and perfectly encapsulating what had happened to that nice, happy feeling Bentley had had just five minutes earlier.  

Eventually, they staggered outside and picked up all the mugs (and teacups) that littered their small landing while Bentley stared at the lock on the door and contemplated setting it to exclude their entry. It would be a nice rest. He would get back some of the peace and quiet he’d had. But they were quicker than he anticipated, and they put everything back without too much fuss, so Bentley figured that that was the end of that and put off locking them out of the apartment.

Bentley figured fucking _wrong_.

* * *

 It continued when Bentley asked Torako to set the table for dinner a few days later. She agreed, in a deceivingly casual fashion that hadn’t seemed deceiving at the time. Therefore, Bentley didn’t realize his mistake until he lifted the pot of soup off the stove, turned around, and saw that there were only plates on the table. Plates and forks.

“Torako,” he said, slowly. He set the hot pan down on the island countertop, which hummed a little louder until it adjusted to the sudden heat. They kept forgetting to fix those settings; he would have to do that soon. “What are you doing.”  
            Torako shrugged and didn’t meet his eye. “I set the table, like you asked.”

“Torako,” Bentley said. “This is soup.”

She fiddled with her phone. “So?”

Bentley felt the sudden urge to cry, but he did not give in. He was stronger than this. “Those are plates. And forks. We need bowls and--” he stopped.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Torako said.

“Does this have to do with it being muggy,” Bentley asked. He crouched and pulled his thermos out of the cupboard set into the island, just in case.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she repeated.

His knuckles turned white around the thermos. Bentley inhaled a fortifying breath, and stood. Without another word, he pulled a ladle out, turned off the pot’s lid function, and began spooning soup into his thermos.

“Bentley?”

He didn’t dignify her with any sort of response, moving on autopilot. There was a bread shop down a ways, he thought absentmindedly. They had good bread. Bread was nice. With soup. Yes, bread and soup and peace.

“Yo, Bentley, what’re you doing?”

“Getting dinner,” Bentley said. He ladled the last spoonful into his thermos, set the ladle in the pot, and tapped the pot to signal it to cool down. Let her have cold soup, he didn’t care anymore.

“What’re you using the thermos for?” Torako asked. She draped over him. He resisted the urge to melt into it, and instead redirected that energy into spinning the thermos lid on.

“Please get off me,” he said, and Torako smooched him on the top of his head before retreating. He sternly told himself that now was the time for Making A Point, not for giving into cuddles. Wonderful cuddles. Despite his sternness, he felt himself wavering; a night on the couch, snuggling while watching a film, seemed even better than bread and soup and peace.

“But Bentley,” Torako said. He turned to face her. She was frowning one of her sad frowns. He deflated a little. Then she opened her mouth, a sly curl to the corner of her still frowning lips, and said, “We have perfectly good forks and plates out here! What are you getting a thermos all dirty for?”

Bentley swelled up again with spite, tinged with mild disgust. He took a deep, fortifying breath. He let it out. And then he made his way to the front door, out the front door, and ignored Torako’s cries for him to come back, that it was just a joke Bentley, please?

The way she was cackling didn’t make him all that inclined to head back home. Bread, soup, and peace it was. 

* * *

 

The next time it happened, Bentley knew a split second after he saw the table. “No,” he said, stopped in the doorway, too exhausted after spending all night at work to turn around. “I am not eating breakfast out of a drinking glass.”

“It’ll be an adventure!” Torako said, in the middle of filling a second glass with slices of bacon. The one already finished had eggs at the bottom, a lettuce and tomato salad in the middle, and strips of bacon and toast jutting out of the top like how the ice cream shop downtown decorated their parfaits with cookie sticks and chocolate wafers. At least those, Bentley thought, were meant to be in a cup.

“No,” Bentley said. He took a step back. Another overnight at work was preferable to this. “Stop this madness.”

Suddenly there was a presence behind him. Bentley stiffened for a moment, something deep at his core screaming danger, before realizing it was Dipper.

“Come on,” Dipper said. “It’s for a good cause! All the plates have been used up. And the utensils. They’re busy.”

“What the _fuck_ with?” Bentley asked. He wished he were hallucinating the whole ordeal. Unfortunately, it was far too much within the realm of possibility to be a sleep-deprived vision.

Torako waved across to the living room with a stick of toast. Bentley turned his head. It took a moment for him to wrap his mind around the fact that what looked to be the contents of their cabinets were currently assembled in a complex rendition of a gladiator arena. There were a few spoons and forks scattered in the middle, inert.

“I gave our buddy a few pints of ice cream to animate us a show during the meal!” Torako said. She set the second glass down and started in on the third. “It’ll be great!”

Dipper shut the door behind Bentley, chortling. Bentley was too tired to cry, or to go down to the bakery down the street and stress-eat pastries. Instead, he let himself be guided onto the couch, let Torako press a ‘breakfast glass’ into his hand, and let Dipper make a mess of their kitchenware in a mockery of gladiator-esque entertainment. He even ate the breakfast, silent and with his fingers, like a broken, broken man. It was all the worse that the breakfast actually tasted good.

Afterwards, Bentley stumbled into the bedroom and crashed, hard. When he woke up several hours later, spooned by Torako and his face nestled into Dipper’s clavicle, Bentley took a deep breath and thought.

* * *

             By the time the next weekend had rolled around, Torako and Dipper had tired of using dishware in unique and unsuitable ways. Bentley had put up the minimum fuss in order to dissuade suspicion, and they’d had their laughs while never knowing that their comeuppance was coming, and soon.

            The problem, Bentley had realized, was that they would take far too much glee in using the wrong tools for the wrong meals, so he couldn’t fight fire with fire. Not directly, at least. He couldn’t have them eat mashed potatoes and fried chicken out of wine glasses, or curry out of beer steins, or drink coffee out of mixing bowls. It didn’t do enough.

            What he had to do was be even more creative, with things they wouldn’t want him being creative with. Make it really, really difficult to eat what they wanted to. It had to be things they wanted, that they enjoyed. And unfortunately for them, he knew where their (accessible) stashes were.

            So that Sunday, Bentley woke up before Dipper and Torako, who had gotten very high and very drunk (respectively) the night before. Bentley got up without a hangover, and quietly but methodically set his plans into motion.

            When Dipper got up several hours later, dried drool crusted at the corner of his mouth and his hair a mess from his perpetual, dipnip-induced head-nuzzling from the night before, Bentley was seated at the kitchen island nursing a cup of coffee.

            “Bleh,” Dipper said. Bentley hummed nonchalantly and took a sip of coffee. He peered at Dipper over the rim of his mug.

            “Good night’s sleep?” Bentley asked.

            Dipper flopped a hand wiggle and stumbled closer to the island. He was adorable, Bentley thought. Due to Dipper’s lack of need for real sleep, he was rarely ever this incapacitated from exhaustion. Adorableness wouldn’t save Dipper though. Bentley smirked a little, then lowered his mug.

            “I thought you might not be feeling great,” Bentley said, “so I decided to get some sweets for you, in return for how...fun you’ve been lately.”

            Normal Dipper would have caught on by now. Hungover Dipper had no such mental faculties at the moment, and instead looked vaguely, sleepily pleased. “Sweets?”

            Bentley gestured with one hand to the dining table. Dipper turned to look, and didn’t respond for several moments. Bentley smiled into his coffee at the tangible confusion. Torako arrived as Dipper was still staring dumbfounded at his stash of candies.

            “Mornin,” Torako said, eyes squinted near-shut and voice hoarse. “What’s breakfast?”

“Yours is over there,” Bentley said, and he gestured over to the kitchen counter. Torako hummed in appreciation, ruffled his hair, and shuffled over to the counter. There was a second, and then she gasped with clear delight. “Moffios!”

Bentley waited.

“I don’t…” Dipper said, a little high-pitched. “Bentley?”

“It’s just a little challenge,” Bentley said. He rested his elbow on the island, then set his chin in the palm of his hand. “To spice up the meal, you know?”

There were a couple of clunks and taps behind him, then a buzz. Torako made a noise of wounded confusion. “B...But, what, what’s?”

Satisfaction glowed deep in his chest, warm and soft.  Bentley smiled, and tilted his head to look over at her, and her elaborate Moffios-dispensing machine. “It’ll be an adventure,” he said, sweetly. “Isn’t it fun?”

“I could just...eat it all,” Dipper said. He poked the giant puzzle ball with the gummies in the middle. There were sigils all over it that prevented tampering and discouraged use of demonic force. Bentley was pretty proud of the tiny spell he’d managed to weave into the energy that made up the puzzle ball’s walls. It made the marble inside likelier to slip, and harder to control metaphysically.

“But then you couldn’t taste the candy as well,” Bentley said. “You’d have all that energy and those nasty-tasting sigils in the way. It wouldn’t be nearly as satisfactory.”

Dipper made a very, very satisfying sound of distress. He poked the puzzle ball again, and the marble slipped out of the walls.   

“Bennnn,” Torako whined. “Lemme eat the Moffios.”

“You can eat them,” Bentley said. He thumbed the arch of the handle on his mug, over and over. “You just have to guess each combination right.”

“Combination?” Torako was staring at him like he’d stomped all over the Moffios instead of letting her eat them.

He hummed. “Well, it needs to be interesting, right?”

“Fine then,” Torako grumbled. “Be that way. I’ll just eat my own Moffios.”

“Where do you think I got those?”

Torako stared at him. Bentley drank some coffee. She finally opened her mouth and said, “You monster.”

“And I know you both won’t have the energy or inclination to go shopping until several hours from now. There is no other food in the house--” a lie, but it was true that they wouldn’t be getting into the fridge or the cabinets without a lot of hard work--“and you really, really love moffios. Or candy, in Dipper’s case.”

Dipper had the puzzle ball in both hands, and was ever-so-carefully trying to slide the marble along the puzzle walls without dropping it. Bentley fully expected him to give in and just consume the whole thing in an hour or so, but he would still be denied the full experience of his goodies.

“I hate you,” Torako said. Her eyes were watering a little. Bentley knew that if he stayed long enough for her to burst into overdramatic tears, he would give in and get the Moffios out for her.

“Well, I have some errands to run,” Bentley said. “Just to let you know, the Moffios only come out a few at a time, just to motivate you properly.” He smiled, drained his coffee, and slid off his stool to set the mug in the kitchen sink.

They were utterly quiet as he left. Bentley shut the front door behind him, and took a deep breath. The sun was shining, there were birds singing, and the bustle of city life was well-underway below them.

In the apartment, he heard a couple of taps, a couple of clinks, and then a burst of near-synchronized swearing. Bentley smiled. Hopefully, he thought as he descended the stairs to head to the park, this would dissuade them from future attempts to spice up mealtime. And if not? He could live off those noises of frustration forever. Bentley closed his eyes, felt the breeze rustle his hair, and listened to another cry of dismay echo out from above him.

Ah, bliss.

**Author's Note:**

> Bentley is absolutely the person who would plot unnecessarily overcomplicated revenge. He would wait, and then he would spring it on you at the moment you least expected it before basking in your reaction and then walking away.


End file.
